The End
by SuperSonic21
Summary: Final story in the Silver!Verse series (you need to have read the other stories before you read this one). A series of oneshots detailing what happened before, during and after Sherlock's fall, from the perspectives of four different characters.
1. I

**_AN:_ I must apologise for the complete lack of Silver!Verse updates. Truth be told, my entire fandom focus has shifted onto Supernatural! Sadly, it doesn't look like I'll be able to finish The Lupine Treaty. **

**However! Instead, I have decided to post a series of oneshots that tell the story of my Silver!Verse version of The Reichenbach Fall. They're all written, and I'll post one a night. **

**Obviously, this is the last story, so before you read this you have to have read the others! There are three in total (in this order):  
_A Study In Silver_  
_The Gifted League_  
_The Adventure of the Idle Hands_**

**So, without further ado, I present you with: 'The End'. Feel free to add any comments of reviews! Thanks for sticking with the series, you're all simply the greatest followers ever :) - B. **

* * *

It didn't really matter how much he hurt Moriarty; how much he paid him or offered him. He was never going to get what he wanted; to stop what he so desperately wanted to stop.

Mycroft laid the tabloid newspaper down on the mahogany table by his armchair, giving a cursory glance to the various cakes and bonbons in front of him. His appetite, finally, failed him. And all it took was the death of his brother.

He sneered at the paper. '_Suicide_ of fake genius'. Sherlock may as well have been pushed off that roof by himself. The truth was, in trying to avert what he knew what would happen, he'd caused it.

The way it usually went, he was given a little leeway between a dream, and the day it would come to pass. However, the magnitude of the event was clearly too massive to afford him a mere two or three days: three months before Sherlock ended up on that roof, he'd dreamt it. He watched the genius cry, and the doctor beg, before he _thought _he saw Moriarty push his brother off the roof. He'd seen it all, through small, brown eyes. Strangely enough, he personally wasn't a witness to these events. Just as well, he realised now: he didn't think he could stomach watching it again.

Three months: they were a length of rope, with which to hang himself, and his brother alike.

He remembered when he'd been so careless as to give the madman what he wanted: the information deemed useless to himself was in actuality priceless to Jim Moriarty. He'd stupidly blurted the fact that he'd seen Sherlock on a roof, forgetting that the Irishman had a real talent for squeezing people until they simply cracked under his pressure. In his dream, Sherlock had physically cracked: his head shattered on the pavement, his bones broken and his organs ruptured.

And Mycroft had given Moriarty the tools to instigate it.

So in the end, it didn't matter if he begged, or pleaded; it didn't matter that he sat demurely, holding in his emotions as he gave Moriarty information, in return for his promise to stay away from Sherlock, and not to have a hand in killing his brother. Because in doing so, he'd just helped Moriarty to achieve his goal: the man always knew he'd kill Sherlock Holmes, but he hadn't known the finer details until he'd gotten Mycroft to share his vision to him.

It turned out Moriarty wasn't going to kill Sherlock Holmes: he was going to speak to him, and then he was going to kill himself.

"Sir?"

Anthea. She, of course, looked entirely different today than she had yesterday. In fact, as the Diogenes club had a strictly all-male policy, she had adopted a male form in order to be admitted. He was quite handsome: the similarities between Anthea's real form and her male form were very striking, actually. However, Mycroft took little notice of his assistant's appearance: it was of little consequence to him which gender she chose to adopt, or what she looked like. It was merely set-dressing, in his opinion, and didn't matter.

"Yes?"  
"A letter has just been delivered for you. It arrived at the club a few minutes ago by courier," He answered, holding up an off-white letter for his employer to see. Mycroft raised a curious eyebrow: deliveries to his office were of annoying frequency. Deliveries to his club, however, were virutally unheard of.

He took the letter from his assistant, who also offered him a nearby silver letter opener, with a murmured thank you. He knew he should be grateful for her companionship: he'd had almost no one to help him through the last month or so; it was clear she was genuinely concerned for him. Their relationship, he felt, went slightly deeper than fellow powered individuals, or MI5 employees, or boss and assistant.

He tore open the letter, and pulled it out.

_Mr. Holmes,  
__Though not my given name, my chosen alias is Fred Porlock. I am writing to inform you . . . _

Mycroft read the entire letter. Twice,. in fact. He couldn't believe the information it contained in the first instance.

He looked up at Anthea's face, and did something he hadn't been able to do in around a month, such had been the weight of his loss, and his feeling of helplessness surrounding it: he smiled.

There was only one thing that could make him smile like that, she thought. So she smiled back.


	2. II

Absence of voices in one's head was usually an indication of psychological well-being. For John Watson, however, when the voices finally cut out for good, he was less stable than he'd ever been in his entire life.

It was just so unbearably silent in the flat now: no hissing and bubbling of experiments, no crashing and clattering of broken glassware, no bellowing about 'lost' cigarettes and quizzing questions about what, exactly, was deemed 'normal' these days by the average adult human being.

John almost smiled when he realised that before, he would have given it all up for a good night's sleep. Now, however, he slept ten hours a night – too long to be healthy, in fact. Every time, he wished that the ten hours would go on forever, so he wouldn't have to wake up from his dreamless sleep to face the harsh numbness of reality.

In the silence, his toes curled into the too-clean carpets. Even Sherlock's smell was gone now: the almost citrus smell of acid; the guilty smell of a sneaked cigarette; the musk of an undoubtedly expensive aftershave his mother had probably bought him for Christmas or something.

He never did ask about the aftershave . . . Now it was upstairs, in Sherlock's room, probably. Mrs. Hudson wouldn't have sold it: she quite often went into his room to smell his things, John had noticed. He didn't have the heart to bring up the fact that the more she did that, the less it would smell like Sherlock, and the more it would smell like her. Then again, if she kept spraying the aftershave . . .

Though obviously, he didn't have Sherlock's psychometric ability, the memories John had whenever he touched certain items in what was now only _his_flat were so vivid that he understood what it was like to possess that particular ability.

An old box of nicotine patches - _three of them? – It's a three patch problem . . . Widens my range . . .__  
_A yellowish jar, which had been cleaned out, and as a result was looking rather forlorn - _Are these human eyes? – It's an experiment!__  
_A ragged blanket they'd never remembered to give back to Mrs. Hudson –_Remembering what happened that night after the museum. . . Dying. He definitely remembered dying 'Mrs. Hudson provided the blankets.' Sherlock had told him._

And, inevitably, when he took a mournful stroll down memory lane, he ended up remembering the last thing Sherlock had ever said to him; the last time he'd heard Sherlock's voice in his head:  
_Goodbye, John_.  
Even then, it had sounded small, and weak, and quiet – it was almost as if Sherlock couldn't control it. Almost as if he had broken. Like he was going out with a whimper, instead of a bang.

John hated to think that Sherlock had given up: he simply refused to believe his words, though they seemed to be seared onto his brain . . . _I'm a fraud_.

_I'm a fraud_.  
_I'm a fraud_.  
_I'm a fraud_.  
_I'm a–_

He knew that, even if he lived forever – as all indications currently suggested he would – he'd never be able to forget the sickening panic that had risen up in him when he'd realised what Sherlock was about to do; realised that he couldn't stop it. Of course he'd throw himself in front of a bus for the man, but he couldn't save him from dropping off the side of a building.

He couldn't save him from himself.

He couldn't even get to him quick enough to be by his side as he succumbed to his injuries. He stumbled towards his friend, managing unwittingly to be hit by a rogue biker in the process. He felt his hands sting and sting from their impact with the ground; he was in so much pain that he couldn't even tell where it was coming from anymore – his body, his mind, whatever – just that it made him want to be able to die, for good this time. It went on for hours, like no pain he'd experienced since his time in Afghanistan. After that, it dulled down, but it was _never completely gone_. It was always there, just like the pain from his leg had been before he'd met Sherlock. He hoped his sadness didn't bring back that particular ailment.

He was suddenly aware that he'd made his way out of the flat having pulled on some socks, shoes and a coat, and had gotten in a cab. He hated looking to his side, and not seeing his best friend tapping away at his Blackberry, or smirking at him, or interweaving his fingers, lost totally in his thoughts, theories and deduction as he stared out of the window at busy London streets.

John wordlessly paid the cab driver, and got out of the vehicle. It was silver: he hadn't even realised. He wondered idly if Jefferson Hope's memory powers would ever have worked on him, due to his unique physiology . . . He realised that was a question Sherlock would have probably known the answer to. He shuffled away from the roadside in silence, the cold biting at him cruelly, in addition to his emotional turmoil.

When he got to his intended destination, he stared down at the black marble headstone, and self-consciously laid a tremulous hand on it: it felt so cold, as if it were trying to ward off intruders with its harsh, icy caress. It wouldn't ward him off, though: he persevered.

Though he felt so out of sorts touching the stone, hating the very fact it represented – _Sherlock is dead_ – the movement to do so had been so organic, so natural, that he didn't have the heart to deny himself contact with the last thing that remained of and represented Sherlock Holmes as he said:  
"Please, just – one more miracle, Sherlock – for me, just . . . Don't be . . ." His voice broke, as his childish, petulant plea caught up with him. He almost didn't have the strength to finish; he had no one left to impress, after all. But it felt bad to leave without completing his last request of his colleague and best, most understanding and honestly amazing friend.  
". . . Don't be dead?"


	3. III

Sad, lonely eyes watched from the farthest corner of the graveyard. He couldn't hear what was being said, but he read the other man's thoughts, and they were the cause as much as the cure of his sadness. On one hand, John hadn't given up his faith in him; he remained loyal to him – even after he'd told him he was a fraud – which made his heart swell with pride and another positive feeling he couldn't quite put a finger on.

On the other hand, though, John was suffering . . . He wouldn't wish this upon anybody, least of all the only friend who had stuck by him in any meaningful, consistent, understanding capacity, despite everything that had happened to and between them.

There was no chance his friend would spot him. If he even so much as _thought_ to turn around, he'd know, and he'd be gone before his muscles could even process the command. Like a ghost, he would simply fade away.

After all: the art of disguise was being able to hide in plain sight.

His insides twisted in an unfamiliar way as he surveyed the older man, who was beginning to look his age; the effect of grief on his physical appearance was shocking. The separation had been difficult for him, too: if the physical injuries he'd suffered hadn't been enough, then the sudden absence of John's warmth and companionship had been what had done it.

Though where he'd lost John's awe-filled and endearingly chiding thoughts, he'd gained a set of analytical, whip-smart and cunning thoughts in their stead. Granted, they weren't nearly as pleasant, they were a great deal more helpful in tracking down every single one of Moriarty's men and giving them as good as he'd gotten himself.

He would make sure Scotland Yard caught wind of the whereabouts of every single man and woman who had orchestrated his supposed demise, and had sufficient evidence to convict each and every one. Revenge was going to be exacted carefully on anyone who'd had anything to do with what had happened to himself, and John, and Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade, and even _Mycroft_. They'd all lost him, yes – but they'd paid a price larger than that. They'd been thrown to the wolves regarding their complete faith in him, and their trust. The media had made mincemeat, in particular, of their careers: John's personal life came under scrutiny, and he had to quit his job for fear that his past would be investigated. Mrs. Hudson was unable to find a new tenant for the flat, considering the 'monster' that had lived there before and the amount of policemen that had come and gone to search through his things to try and find some evidence for his crimes. John had agreed to stay and pay half-rent in the end.

Lestrade was subject to an internal affairs inquiry – however, Mycroft had tried his best to soften the blow for the DI on that front. Mycroft himself, too, was clearly humiliated by his brother's supposed crimes. Sherlock had watched each little tragedy unfold, unable to do anything. He was dead; he needed to remain dead, or else he'd never be able to tear own Moriarty's web of criminal contacts and powerful super-humans. They know where he was, know he was coming for them, and they'd strike back: they'd attack not only him, but everyone he cared about . . . No. Being dead suited him. Being dead worked.

He heard leaves crunching softly behind him. The way the sound pulled him from his reverie was so brutal it may as well have been a gunshot. H knew what it meant, though. He knew it was time to go now.

Finally, he tore his eyes away from John, but couldn't help the whisper that leaked from his mind:

Thank you . . . Thank you, John.

He couldn't quite pin down what he was thankful for, or why he'd been lax enough to let that slip out; he knew, though, that if his friend had even heard the projected thought, he would probably just disregard it. It faded into the wind that groaned in his ears, and the rusting of the oak tree's branches above where his own gravestone stood.

Time to go now.


	4. IV

She couldn't pinpoint the exact moment that she knew she truly hated Moriarty; the exact moment when she decided that to help Sherlock Holmes was most beneficial to her, as well as being morally the correct thing to do. The second part didn't matter as much, though she supposed it was always a plus to know that, this time, she was doing the right thing.

Obviously, it was some time before she'd sent the first letter to the consulting detective. She'd always been curious about him, wondering if perhaps to change allegiance would be wise. As time wore on, she allowed this feeling to grow and grow, and then finally she decided to do something about it; to risk her own life to help Sherlock Holmes.

The painting was the final straw. Writing a childish note, and getting everyone around them to believe that it was a lost Vermeer? Ridiculous. Moriarty wanted to show off to Sherlock, but he didn't have the 'tools' to do so, so he used others, as always.

So, the letter. Verbosely written with her left hand, on generic printer paper, with a biro: she couldn't afford to let slip her identity before the correct moment to do so came.

It summarised how Moriarty had tricked and played with Sherlock: the men he'd assigned to mess with his psychometric visions, the forger he'd gotten to create the lost Vermeer, the countless people he'd used to monitor and punish Sherlock whenever he used his powers, the people he'd threatened and used just to get the consulting detective where he wanted him . . . On that roof, on that day, killing himself.

Though she didn't know why Moriarty wanted him to be on that roof on that day so badly, she knew he was a man possessed; she would never ask, but he'd commented to her before that the idea was simply too good to resist. In actual fact, he said that it was _meant to happen_. She didn't know what this could mean, only that it wasn't going to end well for Sherlock. So, she acted to help him.

She'd earned his trust, and sent more and more letters – though every single one put her life in unlimited danger, were the Irishman to find out about them – until finally Moriarty had told her that this was it; this was the week he would get Sherlock Holmes to kill himself.

But no more. She relished the look of utter surprise and shock – and, indeed, pride – in the younger Holmes' face when she'd revealed her identity to him. Her _true _identity. She still saw the pride and the thankfulness in his face every time he looked at her now, though it was marred by deep discomfort and unhappiness that for John and everyone else he cared about to live, he would have to die.

She regretted that he'd had to die. But it was necessary. After all, what was more believable than the real thing?

She approached him slowly from behind, drawing out his last few seconds looking at his friend; she felt his powers poking at her mind, but batted them away gently: she wouldn't allow him to read her thoughts, but would allow their psychic communication, for obvious reasons of convenience.

Time to go now.  
. . . I know.

He turned, and looked down at her, sighing. She saw from his face that being here just reminded him of the agony he'd been through. He hadn't liked any part of this plan: though the worst bit was abandoning John, the death had been hugely difficult.

But it was the best plan they'd had, and she'd been able to facilitate it.

Truth be told, her power wasn't all too useful to herself – but for others, it was an extremely coveted asset: she was able to transfer and swap powers between individuals. Moriarty had coerced her into using this to give his thuggish men powers, which he made her steal from harmless, peaceful individuals. She hadn't given in at first: when first captured, even prolonged torture hadn't been enough to break her.

It was her family. That's how they'd gotten to her. First, they'd threatened to kill them: this, while painful for her to consider, was an idle threat, she knew. They had nothing else over her, and besides, she wasn't averse to letting her mum, dad, and younger sister die if it meant that countless others would live. They knew this, surely. It was merely a test, to see if she'd make a _rational _decision under pressure.

Then, they threatened to steal their memories of her from them. She couldn't stand to think about looking into her little sister's eyes and not see love, or even recognition. So she complied, so that they could remain hers. Selfish, really. But she couldn't afford to get upset about it now. When the time came, she'd done what was right.

While working for Moriarty, she'd learned how most super-human powers worked; it meant she was able to avoid having her mind read if she wanted to, or being manipulated by an illusionist. She'd learned how to use her powers almost without detection, and how to control them; she improved them until they worked at distance, in the shortest time possible, with barely any side effects to herself or the two 'subjects'. She'd also learned his organisation like the back of her hand, which, of course, came in useful now that she and Sherlock were going to tear the whole thing down.

She'd most importantly learned, after fine-tuning her powers so she could detect powers in others, what Moriarty's power was.  
The only inhuman quality James Moriarty possessed was his fanatical insanity.

Most of all, he was obsessed with Sherlock Holmes. She had never truly found out why. She supposed no one would ever know besides, perhaps, Sherlock himself.

But he was also obsessed with powers, and how to manipulate the people who possessed them. However, strangely, he had never asked her to steal someone's power to give it to himself: he believed, ironically, that powers corrupted the person they were bestowed upon. He believed himself to be open to manipulation and mistakes if he had one of his own. When she thought of her family, and the trouble they'd gotten into because of her ownership of her unique ability, she begrudgingly had to agree with him. In addition, the danger Sherlock has gotten in because of Moriarty's obsession with his powers had hurt not only himself, but everyone he cared about.

She supposed that, actually, they weren't _gifts_ at all. They were ticking time bombs.

When the time had come, she had used her gift to swap Sherlock and John's powers: the doctor reaching out unconsciously with his mind to Sherlock's final thought of _goodbye, John_; the consulting detective dying, and then re-emerging into the land of the living an hour or so later, gradually healing. It had been a slow and agonising process, as his body wasn't used to the alien power forced upon it. It felt unnatural; desperate, just like John's futile grasping at Sherlock's whispered thoughts.

Finally, when Sherlock was completely healed, she wordlessly swapped their powers back. Her new companion didn't speak for a few days; he didn't even communicate with her by thought, as if after all they'd been through, he still didn't trust her. He just sat in the corner of the anonymous rented rooms, a different one each night, and theorised and recalled what happened after death. His own had fascinated him greatly, she noted.

Then, after a few weeks of her solitary, meticulous planning and analysis, and a letter she'd decided it was safe to finally send to Mycroft, he let her in. She supposed she'd finally earned it. He asked her to go back to the graveyard one last time.

She could hear his whispered thoughts now, as he spoke directly into her mind, before they left the graveyard for the last time:

Thank you for bringing me here, Porlock.

She smirked up at him at his use of her fake name, and linked arms with him, leading him out of the gate. He smirked back: the first sign of any amusement he'd shown since his death, which set at ease her fears that he was now incapable of any form of happiness.

The wind whipped at their hair; they appeared two normal people, silently, aimlessly walking along in silence – though none of these things were true.

_Please_, she replied, _I still prefer Molly_.

* * *

**_That's all folks! If you liked this series, recommend it to a friend! Or something. Anyway, it's been a lot of fun to write, and you've all been fantastic - thanks so much for reading and sticking with it, you've been super helpful in providing motivation etc. and I hoped you liked the ending. _**

**_Thanks again! - B. _**


End file.
